Like A Rolling Stone

Listening to the somewhat mourning warble of Bob Dylan,

(I always find his stuff rather melancholy, for some reason)

I contemplate.

And it's all getting to me.

It's all slowly breaking me down,

Grain by grain,

Fiber by fiber, I suppose.

I will crumble,

Like the sandcastles near the mouth of the

Sea.

And when I am gone,

No person left but a ghost,

Perhaps,

The tides may change.

I am feeling hypocritical

And heavy.

I do not know where to start,

Where to end.

What to begin first.

And when things must cease.

I read,

That art needs complete devotion.

And right now,

I am in some sort of tryst

I have my predictable day-life,

School. The droning institution.

And when I am free from my bonds,

I find myself wrapped up

In the carnal embrace of poetry.

And where do I really belong?

When does the affair become my reality?

When does my life become illuminated

And when does art become a pinnacle?

I read a very, very old poem.

"Love is a Sickness"

And it appears to me,

That people have had the same ideas

About love,

For a long time.

We have hardly changed

When it comes to love.

Nobody knows what to think.

We are lost little things.

And oh,

What it is to be lost.

Blindly searching for what ever is to be found.

But it may as well be lost as well.

I have realized that I do not write poems under 30 lines.

It's disappointing,

Because I currently can find only two poems I've written that could be submitted to

Some contests, without substantial editing.

And I am not fond of either of them.

Right now,

I am very fond of the idea

Of just looking at the snow

And maybe,

Drinking some tea.

And forgetting what is real and what is not.

I am very tired of my family.

I am tired of hearing them talk.

Complain, loaf about.

I do not say things

For a reason,

Most times,

Nobody really wants to listen to me.

And I don't want to either.

And so silence becomes the beautiful alternative,

To the silly spoken word.

I am tired of hearing whining,

Voices.

And yet, indeed, I crave conversation.

I long for it.

As though it would sustain my entire being.

And one parting remark.

These days, I am labeled as a pessimist.

Truthfully,

I consider myself a realist.

At least, when I talk.

My imagination is rather "optimistic".

And people say these things,

That I am so negative,

And I'm such a pessimist.

And I'm not,

I swear.

I don't want to be.

And then somehow,

I say something,

And it all just goes.

I am just a pessimist.

And it doesn't seem like much,

Because outwardly it may seem as such,

But it makes me wretchedly unhappy.

I try, really I do,

To be "positive".

I don't find everything to be dismal and horrid,

And everything is going to die.

Really, I do not think as such.

I think things are beautiful.

I love the snow and the rain and the trees,

I enjoy people, their presence and company.

I like how they talk.

I do not want to be a pessimist.

I don't want people to see me that way.

It makes something inside my mind

Sink.

Sometimes, thing get people down.

I am no different.

But to label me as chronically pessimistic seems harsh.

And I don't really care for saying this,

Because I know it won't change.

I am as good as a pessimist to most people.

But I guess,

So long as though flowers know I do not hate them,

And the sea does not recede from my touch,

I will be just fine.

Tis enough for now.

Adieu, adieu.